


Writer's Block

by QueenRamsia



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, M/M, One Shot, Oneshot, Punk!Phan, poet!phil, punk!dan - Freeform, punk!phil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 12:19:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6565912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenRamsia/pseuds/QueenRamsia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil has writer's block, and Dan is the perfect inspiration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Writer's Block

“Hey, fucko,” a rough voice cut through the quiet park.

With a heavy eyeroll, Phil turned to the source of the interruption. “Did you just seriously call me ‘fucko?’”

Dan plopped down onto the bench beside him, his signature grin plastered to his face. His septum piercing glinted in the early morning sun and he shrugged carelessly, pressing a kiss to Phil’s lips. Phil gasped softly when his boyfriend probed his lip ring with his tongue playfully. Dan giggled and pulled away. “Writing poetry, nerd?” 

Phil’s eyes fell down to the notebook in his lap. Words were scrawled across the yellowed pages and scribbled out. There was even a black splatter of ink where he’d become so upset with his writer’s block that he snapped his pen in half. Instead of answering, he asked, “What are you doing up so early?”

“I knew I’d find you here,” Dan absently trailed his fingers up the sleeve of Phil’s leather jacket, “and I wanted to see you before class.” He glanced at the inkblot. “Bad morning?”

“Yeah,” Phil sighed tiredly. “For someone going for an English major, you’d think I’d be able to write a simple poem.”

“Even the best get writer’s block apparently,” Dan cooed, running his hand through Phil’s blue hair. “You’ll figure it out.”

Phil leaned into his hand, letting his eyes flutter shut. “Maybe.”

Dan snorted and, before Phil could ask what he was thinking about, he said, “Write about yourself.”

“You don’t take any of my problems seriously, do you?” Phil snapped, leaning away.

“No, babe, I’m being serious,” Dan laughed. “Write about yourself. You’re a self-proclaimed punk who writes poetry and draws flowers. I don’t think you could get any more ironic.”

Phil blushed despite himself. “Shut up.”

Dan shrugged, unfazed, “Isn’t poetry all about irony?”

“Partly, I guess,” Phil toyed with his ratty notebook. “But I’m not writing about myself.”

“Why not?” Dan suddenly jumped up onto the bench, throwing his shoulders back, “I’m not quite a normal boy. I smile and it’s often--” he faltered, then started again with vigor, “rather coy. I give everyone so much joy, though my poetry is sometimes shit.”

“Your poetry is shit,” Phil cut in, but he was grinning. “And that last part didn’t rhyme.”

“Poetry doesn’t have to rhyme, dweeb.” Dan dropped back down by his boyfriend, running a hand through his ruby red fringe. “Jesus, I should get an English major in uni.”

“I’d pity the professor,” Phil teased. 

“You should pity any professor that has to teach me,” Dan pointed out, slinging an arm around Phil’s slender shoulders. 

“You’re not as badass as you pretend to be.”

Dan pressed a hand to his chest, “I’m hurt, Phil! How could you say something so cruel?”

Phil couldn’t suppress the laugh that bubbled out of his chest. “You’re right, how could I? I’m so sorry, can you ever forgive me?”

The chill was beginning to ebb away with the rising sun and the wildlife of the park was beginning to stir. If Phil listened closely, he could hear the squirrels running through the branches above, and the songbirds had already started their day in earnest. Though the golden light warmed the air, Phil pressed against Dan’s side. “I could write about this.” 

“About what?” 

“You,” Phil lifted a lazy arm and gestured to the glowing scenery, “and all this.”

“You won’t write about your perfect self but you’ll blemish a page with my name?” Dan laughed.

“Don’t talk like that,” Phil punched Dan’s shoulder gently. “I think you’re great.”

“You and my mum,” Dan joked, but there was a discomforted edge to his voice that only Phil could ever hope to notice.

Phil decided not to fight that battle again, not yet. Dan still felt like he was nothing more than a shitstain on the human race and yes, it was Phil’s duty to change that. But not now. Not when Dan was here and Phil was in his warm, strong arms and the sun was winking down at them in their solitude. Such a conversation would end in tense, half-assed apologies and though it would bring them ever closer to a breakthrough, it wasn’t worth ruining the perfect morning.

Maybe that was selfish. 

Dan closed his eyes, tipping his head back to face the sun, and began to hum. Phil smiled and pressed said smile to Dan’s cheek. “I won't write your name. That'd be too...elementary.”

“But you'll write about a guy with red hair and piercings,” Dan raised his eyebrows, but he remained frozen to his position. “That's totally not me.”

Phil wagged his head and frowned as a school bell cut through the peaceful moment. Dan groaned loudly and stood, “Year eleven sucks. See you later.”

“Bye, bear,” Phil said softly.

After watching the tall, black-clad boy stalk through the park and around the corner, Phil turned back to his notebook and checked his phone. Twenty minutes was plenty of time to write a poem. 

‘My love is red,’ he started, and then scribbled it out.

‘My love is the dawn  
Turned gold by the rising sun.’

Phil chewed on the end of his pen thoughtfully before deciding that it was a good start.


End file.
